Section 40
Consideration
Gia
I choose the café because it’s the last place anyone would expect to find me.
The Edison bulbs cast more shadow than light, illuminating beards and laptops and artisanal foam with the kind of gentle glow reserved for selfies.
Nobody here carries a gun—at least not visibly.
Nobody here recognizes my face or knows my name.
It’s neutral ground in a city where neutrality is both fiction and currency, and I need that fiction today.
Like me.
My suit is armor today—black, impeccable, crisp lines that speak of control. The blood-red blouse beneath it is deliberate. Psychology is rarely subtle, but it’s effective. I want Bellini to see power. Control. A woman who bleeds without flinching.
Frank thinks he’s won. He thinks I’m hiding, licking my wounds, or plotting some emotional retaliation that will play into his narrative of female instability.
The coffee cup creaks in my grip. I ease the pressure.
He doesn’t understand that I’m not his mirror. I don’t operate on wounded pride. I operate on calculated removal.
The bell above the door chimes precisely at 10:00 a.m.
Bellini enters like mist—not commanding immediate attention, but gradually becoming the most significant presence in the room. At first glance, he could be any young, successful start-up businessman taking an early meeting.
The bulge beneath his left arm tells a different story. So do the contents of my purse.
He spots me immediately—he’s probably already mapped the entire café, as any of us would—and makes his way over. His gait is unhurried. Deliberate. A man who knows the value of every step.
“Miss Serrano,” he says, extending his hand. “A pleasure as always.”
I stand and accept his handshake. Brief. Professional. Cold. “Raffaele.”
His grip is dry and firm without the masculine posturing of excessive pressure, like he’s practiced. Control wearing a suit with its tack stitching remaining.
He sits across from me, angling his chair slightly so he can see the door. I don’t comment on it. We both know the rules.
“You look well,” he says.
“Let’s dispense with pleasantries,” I reply. “We both have more important things to do today.”
His mouth curves into that half-smile that’s become his trademark—not quite amusement, not quite threat.
A server approaches, and Bellini orders an espresso without looking at the menu. When she leaves, his eyes settle on me with renewed focus.
“I admit, I’m curious,” he says. “It’s not often you initiate meetings without your… security detail.”
The reference to Lucky isn’t subtle. It’s a test, a probe for reaction. I give him nothing.
“I can take care of myself.”
“Didn’t say you couldn’t. I assume this is about last night’s… transition of management.”
The espresso arrives. He doesn’t touch it yet.
I rifle through my purse, not bothering to conceal my gun, but produce a thick folder and place it on the table.
“You know what this is?” I say.
“Last year’s Christmas newsletter?”
“Frank’s playbook. Every scam, every weak point. Names, dates, some things even you might find interesting.”
I push the folder closer. He lets it sit there.
“I’m considering removing Frank from his position,” I say, watching his face with the kind of attention normally reserved for bomb diffusion. “Permanently.”
The words hang between us. I don’t qualify them. I don’t need to.
Bellini’s expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his eyes—a flicker of calculation, of reassessment. He lifts the espresso cup with deliberate care and takes a sip.
“Interesting timing,” he says finally.
“Is it?”
“From what I’ve gathered, you’ve tolerated Frank for years. His… eccentricities. His methods.”
“Tolerance has limits,” I reply. “He’s crossed mine.”
Bellini sets the cup down with a precision that borders on theatrical. “Because he took your club? Or because he took your man?”
My expression remains neutral, but something cold slides through my veins. Frank has been talking. Sharing his theory about Lucky with anyone who might find it useful.
“Because he’s become a liability,” I say. “His methods are outdated. His judgment is compromised. And his ambition has exceeded his competence.”
Bellini takes his time with me. Then that half-smile returns, sharper this time.
“You don’t need to convince me of Frank’s limitations,” he says.
“And yet you sat at his table.”
“I sit at many tables,” he replies. “It doesn’t mean I enjoy the company.”
I take another sip of my coffee, giving myself a moment. Outside, the city moves in its usual rhythm—people rushing, traffic flowing, lives intersecting without awareness of the currents shifting beneath the surface.
“What would it take,” I ask carefully, “for someone to handle this situation?”
Bellini leans back, his posture relaxed but his eyes alert. “That depends on the parameters of ‘handling’ it.”
“Clean,” I say immediately. “Surgical. Nothing that creates more problems than it solves.”
He nods slowly, as though he expected nothing less. “And the aftermath?”
“There would be transitional concerns. Stabilization.”
“Which you would oversee.”
“Naturally.”
His fingers tap once against the table—not nervousness, but punctuation. “You’re offering me Frank.”
“I’m discussing options,” I correct.
“Semantics,” he says, but there’s no heat in it.
The café has filled around us, the morning rush creating a buffer of noise and movement. Two students argue about philosophy at the next table. A woman in yoga pants types furiously on her laptop near the window. None of them aware of what’s being negotiated three feet away.
Bellini leans forward. “In chess,” he says, voice lower now, “removing a piece from the board often creates more opportunities than capturing it.”
“I’m not interested in games,” I reply. “I’m interested in results.”
“All of life is games, Gia. The only difference is the stakes.” His eyes meet mine directly. “I could handle this situation. In a way that wouldn’t leave fingerprints on either of us.”
I keep my expression neutral. “And what would you want in exchange?”
The half-smile again. “A favor.”
“Be more specific.”
“To be determined,” he says. “Called in at a time of my choosing.”
I don’t react, though my mind is already calculating the variables, the potential costs, the ways this could go wrong. An undefined favor is a loaded gun with the barrel pointed at my future.
“I don’t do open-ended.”
Bellini spreads his hands. “Then perhaps we don’t have anything to discuss after all.”
He doesn’t move to leave. He knows I’m not done.
“Parameters,” I say. “No collateral damage to my operations. No blowback. Clean execution.”
“Of course.”
“And the favor has limits. Nothing that compromises my autonomy.”
He considers this, head tilted slightly. “I could agree to that. With the understanding that autonomy is subjective.”
“Not to me.”
A soft chuckle. “No, I imagine not.”
The silence stretches between us, taut as a tripwire. I know what I’m doing. I know the risk. But Frank sitting in my booth, Frank dismantling my operations piece by piece, Frank using Lucky as leverage—these are not acceptable outcomes.
“If we proceed,” I say carefully, “it would be a one-time arrangement.”
“Until the next time you need something handled,” Bellini replies.
“There won’t be a next time.”
His eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. “Gia,” he says, “there’s always a next time. That’s the nature of our business. The pieces move. The board changes. New threats emerge.”
“And you position yourself to benefit from each shift.”
“As do you,” he says. “We’re not so different.”
I let that statement hang, neither confirming nor denying. Bellini and I are both strategists, but our methods diverge in critical ways. He plays the long game, gathering favors like collector’s items, rarely using force when manipulation will do. I prefer cleaner lines, transparent transactions.
“Do we have an agreement?” I ask.
Bellini extends his hand again. I take it. His grip is firmer this time, more certain. “Agreed.”
He releases my hand and stands, adjusting his cuffs with practiced precision. “I’ll be in touch with details. Three days, at most.”
“Make it two.”
That half-smile again. “Impatient?”
“Efficient,” I correct. “The longer Frank thinks he’s won, the more damage he does.”
Bellini nods. “Two days, then.”
He leaves cash on the table—more than enough to cover both our drinks. A small power move, claiming the role of host in a meeting I arranged. I let him have it. It costs me nothing.
I remain seated, finishing my coffee in slow sips. My phone buzzes once in my pocket. I don’t check it yet. Instead, I give myself exactly three minutes to consider what I’ve just set in motion.
Frank will be removed. Red will return to me. The balance will shift again.
And I will owe Bellini a favor with boundaries that exist only in theory.
It’s a calculated risk. The kind that separates leaders from casualties in this city.
I leave cash matching Bellini’s amount exactly and stand.
In chess, they call it a gambit—sacrificing something valuable to gain position.
In my world, we call it survival.